Friday, August 20, 2010

A Reasonable Critique is Practical

So how does one go about writing a savage review? I think takes a ruthless and cold-blooded nature to be able to serve up cold hard truths without pulling punches he said, kicking a puppy. I have seen businesses and possibly careers decimated by savage machete slashes through the green foliage of achievement and self-aggrandising exclusivity. AA Gill, a food critique and brilliant writer once attested to being able to eat alphabet soup and shit a better menu then the one of a restaurant he had evaluated. Lets see if I can bat at that level, he said, slowly then drew a long breath and mounted his soapbox, machete in hand.
I recently went out for a riotous Saturday night on the town in Ballarat, the bustling 40-watt bright centre of regional Victoria.

After a beautiful Japanese tepinyaki journey, and as long as your clock works, you will know that it is time to make the journey then the Karova lounge. One of the last bastions for live music and entertainment, and one of the few venues not suckling on the depraved pokies teat. Apparently the Whitlems wrote a song about the pokies, I would love to be able to afford the CD , if it wasn't for my debilitating gambling addiction.

We depart with our $17 dollars at the door and received the rudimentary hand stamp. After three Coopers Pale Ale, a wonderful South Australian, brewed in the bottle and brandishing a crisp and tangy flavour with just a hint of pencil sharpenings and plumb. It is recommended that you cellar for up to three days before devouring. So I have been dishing out all good reviews so far, the night is going swimmingly...

Announcing himself on the stage arrived Whitley, a young John Mayer looking twenty something brandishing a beautiful guitar. The Whitley band was out the back, but alas only certain venues can accommodate "the talent", the ego and the other band members at the one time. Tonight our stage was straining under the massive weight of this balladeer.



Finger picking and swooning a drab blanket of treacle across the crowd of one hundred ears, the musical genius stopped, not five bars into the second song, just like the last. Someone in the crowd was talking! What an affront to the delicate genius being revealed to the lucky few. The crowd was promptly informed by princess Whitley how difficult it is for a artist to weave their magical tapestry when people are talking. This is understandable, considering cranky pants was only amped up with a few hundred watts and a plethora of fold back speakers.
After about thirty minutes of morose mumblings the fleet foxes roadie could belt out with more skill, a few political references were thrown out, yes, yes everyone disliked Howard, and the twenty-one year old crowd did seem to salivate over the musician with a cause, [insert objectionable main stream policy here] It may be time for some new material.
So in summary, the hung over, talentless princess Whitley and his massive ego hearts club band and skinny talent morosely mumbled though forty minutes and left after admonishing the crown for their lack of homage to genius. No one protested, save one when we were informed he didn't like encores. I restrained from yelling out, "No encore please, maybe you should have been an architect or a librarian...SHHHHHHH."
I have a test when I see a band, can you hum it later? Was I amazed by the musical talent? Was there blood to the music, a passion in the songs? If so, the band is on the right track. A resounding no sounded to all of the above and a reluctant three out of ten has been awarded for turning up, not electrocuting yourself, and having all the strings on your guitar, seriously, become an architect!

You can buy the new Whitley album "Talentless Whitley and the massive ego hearts club Architect Band" Online now - personally I would rather spend that money at the pokies.

Friday, August 13, 2010

Art and Culcha

Do you appreciate the art that is around you? Do you absorb the expressions, appreciate the creativity, discuss, lament and ponder the concepts and ideas born in the art that is sprayed, carved, etched and hung on the walls around your city? Or are the Galleries, the architecture, the ornate buildings, and exhibitions all places the tourists visit while you rush, latte in hand to your real life? Or is it all for the tourists?

We are often told, Australia has some of the world’s most livable cities and has beautiful buildings where art hangs sitting, waiting to be viewed, interpreted and spat out as an intelligent thought at the right diner party. Hidden in peripheral plain site are lanes ways overflowing with graffiti art, culture, music and sweet espresso aromas. Ornate bookshops, filled with a thousand tales you will never know.


Perhaps you are one of the suited oblivious masses, guilty of saying "excuse me" as you bump into a bronze statue while playing with your latest iPhone application - iDistract, or iWaste, where you have to toss pieces of crumpled paper past a fan and into a bin, every point gained an insult to the beautiful surrounds you ignore.
I like to think that I am cultured and appreciate the art in my city. I know that Baggett is French for French stick, I don't order white coffees any more I order a "Cafe Latte" and when in a cafe I order a cwass-en not a cross-ont. When I am perusing the wears of the biggest shopping centres in the southern hemisphere, I always buy items "styled in Europe - manufactured in China." Soon all the first world economies will import a packet of HB Pencils a year and export three sheets of design paper. Unlike Megan Gale's career, this is not a sustainable model.



I am guilty of a few faux pars in my time, which may lead people to believe I do not have culture or style. I have ordered a short black while in a cafe named 'Espresso," I have worn a bright tie to a funeral, white socks with a black suit, worn blue and green, traveled and been an absolute tourist cliché. I missed Hailey’s comet last time round because "Its a Knock out" was on the TV, and let the recent Picasso exhibition slip past unattended, the cubic meters of regret will never fully be measured. I have decided I am going to make an investment and get to at least one cultural or artistic event every month for the next year and see what rewards come of it.


So remember as you enter the lobby on your way to work, wading through emails on your iPhone pilot, the financial review under arm, overflowing with numbers and letters all in black and white, none of them read. Stop and see the roses in the painting on the wall. Book into the latest show at the theatre, play chess bare foot in the park on your lunch break, even better, take up a life drawing class after work. Its time to choose, are you Venus or cup of Milo? Are you “Home and Away” and the Anatomy of Grey or the Sound of Music matinee in the theatre on that rainy day? My advice is to find that which engages you, seek out a piece of art that tickles your fancy, choose a favorite building in the city, find a painting that makes you laugh cry and sing all at once.

Jonathan Nolan